


Surfacing

by Lynds



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Depression, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hank McCoy is So Done, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poor Charles, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-X-Men: Days of Future Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynds/pseuds/Lynds
Summary: Logan is pulled from the Potomac by Hank and Charles, just after the battle with Magneto. He's not the only one who feels like he's drowning.
Relationships: Logan (X-Men)/Charles Xavier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 88
Collections: X-Men Rare Pairs 2020





	Surfacing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherikinkrakoa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherikinkrakoa/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [cherikinkrakoa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherikinkrakoa/pseuds/cherikinkrakoa) in the [xmenrarepairs20](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmenrarepairs20) collection. 



> **Prompt:**   
>  _Post DOFP, Charles and Hank rescue Logan from the lake and bring him back to the school to recover. Fluff, angst, or anything else._
> 
> I actually didn't know where this story was going to go until it got there. I hope you enjoy it, it's a bit weird in parts, perhaps, but I was kind of having fun playing with the river imagery for Charles and Logan! Also I'm sorry Logan recovers so quickly, but he's got a damn healing factor!! He's not very good at physical hurt/comfort lol!

Logan hated his ability in that moment. The inability to die while his lungs screamed, begged for mercy as the water filled them, the constant, torturous workings of his every cell, repairing the damage faster than damage could be done. He had wanted to die so many times, begged for it. Begged to be back at the end of the world so he could perhaps die there, but no relief came. 

He wished he had seen the end. Wished he had been able to see if they had succeeded, if Mystique had been stopped. How badly Magneto had hurt Charles. Because it was never a case of whether he had hurt him, but how much.

When he was first moved, Logan didn’t notice. Pain had become pain. Drowning may have been a peaceful way to die, but perhaps only if you were able to die in the end. Perhaps if he had been able to black out from it, but something kept bringing him back. Kept holding his mind, anchoring it.

No. Not anchoring, because he was moving now, lifted up by the chest, his head lolling back from the force of the water, chains clanking, metal groaning, and air, air, thin and penetrating and painful in a new way.

_You’re safe now. I’m sorry. Sleep._

***

“Can we please go now, Charles?” Hank snapped, his fur bedraggled as he hauled Logan’s body over his shoulder.

Charles sighed and nodded, pressing his hand to his own ribs. He was exhausted, filthy and bleeding and probably more broken than before, judging by the way his left thigh was swelling and warm to the touch. “Yes, of course, Hank, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t leave him there, I could feel his mind and… But you’re hurt too. I’m sorry.”

Hank rolled his eyes and seemed to sag. “Not me, you idiot. You. I’m worried about you.”

“Oh.” Charles bit his lip. Of course. Hank was always worried about him, and no wonder. How long had he been a mess? Could he ever not be a mess? What was left of him to be proud of, after all? “Yes. OK… well, thank you.”

For all that Charles was an alcoholic junkie, he was still a wealthy man. Wealthy enough that he could get a taxi back to Westchester and convince the driver to look past the dripping wet people on his seats, and Charles only had to expend the minimum amount of energy to make Hank appear human. He stared out of the window as they drove back to that hated house.

He’d been fooling himself for such a long time, thinking that he could defeat his demons by turning that place into a sanctuary rather than a prison. For a while there’d been hope. They’d had almost ten pupils in the late sixties, and he’d had visions of so many more, of using Cerebro to find children before they had to suffer the kind of harm Raven had. 

The war had ended those hopes, and Charles had allowed himself to break under the weight of nightmares and grief. Finally said yes to Hank’s serum and the blissful oblivion of not hearing anyone’s pain but his own.

He could do that again, he thought, the insidious voice sneaking in at the back of his mind. He could lose himself in these old hallways and fade away, become the ghost his mother had always been and die without leaving a small boy to grieve the parent she never was. It’s not like anyone would miss him if he allowed himself to sink below the surface of the tar in his mind. He could leave the house to Hank. Set him free of his perceived obligations. A young man like Hank with so much to offer the world - he shouldn’t be trapped by a selfish —

And then Logan woke, heaving in a huge breath, his claws shooting out from his fists as he fell into a coughing fit, flailing around in a panic. Hank shouted and grabbed for his wrists, blood swelling into a gash across his cheek. “Logan!” Charles cried, throwing himself across the seat and trying to clutch at his shoulders, pin his arms down in an embrace. Christ, the man was strong! “Calm your mind,” he said. _Calm your mind._

Pain bloomed through his shoulder as one of the claws caught in his bicep and he cried out, falling back and pressing his fingers to his temple. Logan froze in place, his eyes wide and terrified, his breath rattling with the dregs of the Potomac bubbling through the airways. _Please, calm your mind,_ Charles repeated, trying to follow his own advice. _Logan, it’s Charles. Do you remember…?_

He thought about the Logan that he and Erik had found in the bar, surly and radiating hatred. He remembered Logan’s story - his Logan’s story - that his mind had been sent back in time, and his blood chilled. What if this was no longer his Logan, if he’d gone back to his own future and all the pain that had been waiting for him there? 

Charles forced down the un-looked-for sadness at that thought. _His_ Logan? What was he thinking? He barely knew the man (though, the one bright spot in his recent memory reminded him, he knew every part of his mind and soul, had had it _given_ to him.)

 _Chuck?_ Logan asked, and Charles tried to hide the relief, gently letting go of Logan’s body, relinquishing control back to him as he relaxed. “Where am I?”

“You’re in a taxi,” said Hank sharply, and sat back once more, brushing a finger across the cut in his cheek. “Charles insisted we get you out of the river - you’re welcome by the way - rather than getting medical attention.”

Logan’s head turned towards Charles, a scowl furrowing his brows as he glanced over Charles’ body, cataloguing his injuries. Charles turned away, embarrassed. “Of course we weren’t going to leave you there,” he said, more to Hank than Logan. “It’s our fault you were in that situation, after all.”

Logan snorted. “Not sure how you figure that,” he said, but cut himself off with an attack of coughing, doubling over. Charles winced and thumped his back, for all the good that could do. He hoped Logan’s healing factor could keep him safe from any awful diseases he’d otherwise pick up from inhaling and swallowing the disgusting river water.

The driver stopped and turned back, oblivious to the blood and slashes in his upholstery. “That’ll be $20, gentlemen.” Charles gave him three times that, and sent him home with false memories.

As the man disappeared down the drive, Charles felt himself slump, his body shaking as the adrenaline drained from him. “Charles?” Said Hank.

Charles found he’d closed his eyes. “I’m fine, Hank,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Like hell you are, bub,” growled Logan, and scooped him up and out of the warped wheelchair. Charles yelped and clutched at him. Logan smelled of warmth and river and smoke, and Charles tried to tell himself that it wasn’t an almost unbearably comforting thing, being carried by him.

Hank led them through the house to the lab, and Logan laid Charles on the hospital bed. Charles lay back and closed his eyes as Hank moved around him to position the x-ray machine, his steps and his mind dragging slightly with exhaustion.

Charles was being a burden again. He wondered if he would ever manage to be anything but a burden, an inconvenience on those he loved, a millstone pulling his mother down into depression and alcoholism, holding Raven back from her true and magnificent potential, keeping Hank trapped in a carer’s position. He had even held Erik back for a time. He’d just been too naive to realise, thought his love would be enough. 

He glanced over at Logan. Other than soaked through, he looked none the worse for his adventure. Charles sighed. So much for rescuing the man. Logan and Hank now had to fix Charles up instead.

“Well, it’s broken all right,” Hank sighed. “Guess we’d better set it and immobilise you.”

Charles snorted. “On the plus side, you won’t have to use any anaesthetic.”

“And what about the ribs?” Logan said, his arms crossed over his chest.

Charles turned his face away and smiled wryly. “They’re not that bad.” But it was too late. Hank was already unbuttoning his shirt to check them over too, and he glared at Logan. “I can still undress myself, Hank,” he snapped.

“Sorry.”

He bit back any words, apologies and cruelties alike, and slipped his shirt off. Logan hissed and frowned, a hand coming down to hover over his bruised ribs. Charles could feel the heat coming off him from there, and thought it would be worth the ache to have Logan touch him.

Logan shook his head as Hank started palpitating each bone. “I always think how much more useful my healing factor would be if I could share it around,” he said, digging a cigar out of his pocket and grimacing at the sodden state of it.

Charles smiled. “That’s very generous of -- ow!”

“Sorry,” Hank said distractedly, then straightened up. “Looks like none of them are displaced. A couple are cracked. You were lucky, looks like a chunk of rebar fell right across your chest there.”

“It did,” Charles sighed. “What about you, though?”

Hank shrugged and stretched, wincing at a couple of sore muscles. “I’m fine. My healing factor’s nearly as fast as Logan’s.”

“Good,” Charles said, nodding, and stamped down hard on the selfish bitterness that whinged about being the only vulnerable one of them. Hank smiled sadly at him anyway, and part of Charles wanted to scream, tell Hank to stop feeling sorry for him all the time. He didn’t deserve it.

But Hank certainly didn’t deserve to be screamed at. Instead Charles lay still as Hank strapped his leg up in a sort of hinged cast that could be opened in places to relieve pressure sores. Logan helped, immobilising Charles’ hips as Hank pulled on his leg, realigning the bone. 

Charles could do nothing but stare at the ceiling and remind himself that he was supposed to have hope now. Apparently they needed him to have hope, whoever _they_ were. His future self. Mutantkind. Bloody hell. Apparently they were counting on him. 

Poor bastards.

But he wasn’t going to let them down. He wasn’t going to let himself fall back into that tar pit he’d been sinking in for years - or at least he wouldn’t outwardly. Charles knew what responsibility was. He was good at it, and he was good at faking. He could pretend he had found his hope once more. Probably.

***

He was drowning. The water was blue above him, a weak light filtering down, bubbles trickling up to the surface, taking his precious air with it and he was scared, so scared. He clawed for the surface, his fingers finding no purchase, his body sunk in the sand below, pulling him down, down, deeper, and this was a dream. He knew it even as he begged the river to release him, let him take a breath that wasn’t liquid. Let him go, please, let him live or die, just not this hellish limbo of pain, pain, pain.

This was a dream, and it was not his dream.

Charles clenched his jaw, forced his focus, and separated his mind from the one that tangled in it, feeling the fear, the clinging, the terror as if it were his own, and there. In front of him, in the green-brown of the cloudy water, Logan reached for the surface, lost and alone in his own mind. 

Charles reached out and wrapped his arms around Logan - his dream arms around Logan’s dream body. _Logan,_ he said.

The terrified mind reached for him again, only this time Charles knew where he ended and Logan began, and he welcomed Logan in, hauling him from the water in a rush and tumbling on the floor of Charles’ own dreamscape, coughing and shivering. 

Charles caught his breath, pushing his hair back from his face, waiting for Logan to sit up and brush it off, or lash out the way he had that afternoon, but still he lay on the floor, trembling and curled up. “Logan?” he asked, reaching out a hand.

To his surprise, Logan hunched further, his face hidden. Charles pulled himself closer, hand stroking along Logan’s shoulders and to the back of his neck. “Come now, it’s OK, you’re safe,” he murmured softly, self-consciously, for surely a powerful, self-possessed man like Logan wouldn’t appreciate being coddled.

But Logan curled into him, shaking arms wrapping around Charles’ waist, tugging him close. Logan pressed his face into Charles’ chest and huddled there, his breathing still erratic as Charles, bewildered, cuddled him close and stroked his hair.

***

Logan sat up at last, his face still turned away, pressing his embarrassment into his hands as he wiped his face. “Sorry,” he said, his voice rough.

“Please, don’t be,” Charles said softly. Logan could feel him pulling back, and something felt sad at that. For a moment the sensation felt alien, and Logan realised it wasn’t his.

Charles had fallen into his dream and then pulled him out. Both out of the water that still made him shudder, and out of the panicked state he’d been in after. He’d held him and stroked his hair and _comforted_ him.

The Professor that Logan knew from the future, his old friend and mentor, had pulled him out of trouble a couple of times too, but not like this. Charles was… not the same. Logan pushed himself against the wall and looked at Charles. “Thank you.”

Charles smiled, the dark circles under his eyes somehow more shadowed in this… corridor they were in. Logan frowned and took in their surroundings. “Where are we?”

Charles tugged at his hair. “Ah… I believe I might have pulled you out of your nightmare into mine. I’m sorry about that.”

Logan turned back to Charles quickly, concerned, but Charles looked fine. He looked like he usually did in this timeline, hair and beard too long, limbs too thin. The house looked pretty much the same as well. Too quiet, too dark. Empty.

His heart ached for Charles.

“Oh, please don’t,” Charles laughed humourlessly. “Really, you were drowning in your nightmare! I think I can handle a little solitude.”

Logan didn’t stop looking at him. Didn’t stop aching for him, and Charles looked away, hanging his head. “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, Chuck,” he said gently. 

“No, you’re right. I’m not ashamed.” Charles smiled up at him quickly and Logan could feel the desolation under it, as tightly wound as they were in each other’s minds. 

“Sure you aren’t,” he said, raising an eyebrow. Charles huffed and looked away. 

For a moment they sat, Charles staring at the dull pattern on the carpet, Logan staring at Charles. Then slowly, like Charles was the wild animal here, Logan reached for him, brushing calloused fingers over his cheek. Charles gasped and froze, his eyes fluttering shut, and Logan stroked his fingers now into his hair, into the tangled strands.

He could feel Charles shudder under his fingertips as he touched him, his entire body tight as a bowstring. “Please,” he whispered.

“Please what?” Logan asked, turning to look at him better, brushing his hair behind his ear. “Please stop? Please go on?”

“I don’t…” Charles’ breath stuttered out of him. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a whisper.

Logan had felt like this before, he thought. Untouched. Untouchable. He sat sideways and stroked Charles’ face, the cheekbones, the nose, the lips. He put the lightest pressure on Charles’ jawline, turned his face towards him, leaned forwards. Charles smelled of fear and hope and despair, and Logan’s thumb brushed over the coarse hairs on his cheeks, leaning further forward until their faces were almost touching, foreheads together. 

He wanted to hold Charles. He wanted Charles to hold him, and to pull him out of his nightmares. He wanted to turn Charles’ mind away from this grey nightmare of his own, of loneliness and loss. He wanted to scoop him into his lap and kiss him and hold him close, keep him warm and hear Charles’ calm, cool voice in his mind when he panicked, when the feral beast in his gut leaped out to take over. He wanted, but he would never take more than what Charles could give him.

Charles surged forward the last inches and kissed him, and Logan growled deep in his throat as Charles pulled him onto his lap, holding his head cupped in both hands, reaching up and kissing, kissing like there was nothing left in the world but them. No river, no past, no pain and no future, just the two of them suspended in this moment, holding each other, giving and taking and caring just for one another. Charles kissed him, and as he did so their minds tangled further, still distinct, two shining streams curling along each other, tendrils wrapping together and sharing heart and soul. Logan opened his life to him and Charles gave a muffled cry, pressing a kiss to his temple, his neck, his lips. 

Logan felt surrounded, floating, warm. He felt like he could fall backwards and not have to catch himself, or let himself burn and wait for the world to drag him back into it. He felt Charles’ arms around his waist, his head buried against his neck, and felt like here, perhaps, he didn’t have to burn. He didn’t have to drown. He lifted Charles’ face and kissed him again, rubbing his cheek against Charles’, pressing his warmth and smell into him, wanting to be entirely entwined, entirely each other’s. 

He wanted to take care of Charles. 

Waking up was like being doused in cold water, and Logan gasped as he opened his eyes, his room seeming cold and empty, though the early morning light streamed in the window. His mind cried out, reaching for something that had only been there so short a time and yet had felt infinite. _Charles._

He was up in a moment, marching through the corridors, so like those in Charles’ nightmare. He wondered how Charles could tell whether he was asleep or awake some days. He imagined he just… didn’t. 

He didn’t knock. Charles knew he was there, whether or not he was communicating. He walked in, standing in front of the bed. Charles didn’t turn to look at him. 

“Why?” he asked at last.

Charles didn’t answer. Logan frowned and glared out of the window. Words were not his strong point, but he knew Charles wasn’t in his mind. Wouldn’t give him the easy way. “Is it because you don’t want me?”

“What? No!” Charles said, turning at last, blue eyes almost fierce in their defence of him. 

Logan flickered a smile. “Why push me away then?”

Charles shut his eyes and Logan tasted pain in the air. “I’ll pull you under,” Charles said softly. “I’m sinking, you know that.”

“You pulled me out of the water, I can do the same.”

Charles shook his head. “I don’t want to be repaid, Logan.”

“That’s not what I meant--”

“And I don’t want you to take care of me. I’ve been a burden quite enough, I don’t want you of all people--”

“Ahh,” Logan said, relaxing. “That’s what this is about. You think I want to nurse you or some shit.”

Charles frowned at him, and Logan sat on the bed, legs stretched out towards the head of the bed so they faced each other. He smiled fondly at him. “You missed the bit where I want you to take care of me too.”

Charles blinked. “You want me to…”

_You trust me to--_

“Yeah,” Logan shrugged. “Trust you? Of course. Want you?” He knelt up and straddled Charles, careful not to lean any weight on him. He watched Charles’ pupils dilate as he bent over him. “Also yes.”

Charles kissed him, and Logan could get used to this, to being pulled around by the bossy little shit, feeling blunt fingers digging into his hair, cradling Charles’ skull in his own hands and kissing him. Only one thing missing. 

“You can come back in, you know,” he said softly, his face barely any distance away from Charles’. Their lips brushed with each word. He tapped his own temple. “It ain’t pretty, but if you want a change of scenery from your own head.”

He could almost taste Charles’ hesitation, the raw want as his mind hovered just out of reach, then dived into Logan’s. Charles’ mind twined with his own, two great rivers side by side, sparkling. The freshness of it, the complete release and capture and support of it felt like breaking the surface and taking a breath. Logan leaned down and kissed Charles again.


End file.
